Just Like Old Times
by Konstantinsen
Summary: A mercenary returns to the battered East African state where he rekindles his past and tries to settle a personal matter.
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Far Cry 2 or any of its related elements. This software belongs solely to Ubisoft and its developers.**

**Note: This is my first fan fiction. The setting of this story takes place in 2010, two years after the events in Far Cry 2 so I'll be making a few changes to the scenery that you usually see in the game. The mercenary has returned to the country to settle a personal matter. Please be light but specific with your criticisms and reviews. They will be greatly appreciated.**

It had been quite some time. An eerie feeling of nostalgia became his aura as he stepped out of the old bus that had parked steadily just outside of Pala. The blazing African sun embraced him with its familiar heat as its light reflected from his shades.

Two years passed since his adventures in the war torn state. Images of his life in the country flashed intermediately—guns, diamonds, and blood— followed by the echo of voices by the Jackal, Reuben, Marty, Nasreen, and everyone else. The sudden burst of memories left him temporarily paralyzed under the sun's heat.

It took the first trickle of sweat to snap him back into reality. He had been standing there under the sun just outside the bus station like the rest of the other men he used to see in those ceasefire zones.

He sighed. He walked to the open town. There were no concrete blocks. The sandbags were scattered on the side of the road while only a handful of the many mounted machine guns he used to see were still in place. But there was one signature of his experiences that stuck out—the troops.

Soldiers, most of them African, littered the ravaged town. Two years and the civil war was still ongoing. Old ones were gone, new ones were here. The number of white mercenaries that he frequently had staring contests with had dwindled to only a handful. They were replaced by teenage African boys holding automatic rifles and wearing their traditional rags. Some even had body armor on them, including a boy who wore a dented cooking pan for a helmet.

Ignoring the oblivious stares thrown at him, he walked to the old hotel he stayed in. It was still a mess. Even though there were some minor renovations, the place was still unfinished with its third story walls sticking out on top.

Inside, the bar was fixed with even more bottles of liquor and junk. The tree in the middle had grown. The tables and chairs were all standing up but a bit off place. The usual junk sat here and there.

To his left, he heard the murmur of two British voices. He turned his head and met the eyes of two British mercenaries drinking and watching television. They had the usual staring contest before the soldiers trailed their eyes off and continued watching "crappy TV."

He smiled and continued upstairs where his old room was. Markings of where they placed the cement made it obvious that whoever repaired the damaged wall were amateurs. He turned the knob and it swung slowly.

The same bed sat in the corner in Room 5. The old bed where he woke up to find the Jackal rummaging through his things and then sparing his life so he could help him cure the so-called "disease." He had nothing much to say about it. But he could so recall that very day. Fresh from the airport only to suffer malaria and end up in a crappy African hotel staring death in the image of a nihilistic arms dealer.

And then there was the church on the other side. He had a brief glimpse of Father Maliya standing near the shrine as he entered. The interior was still the same with only a few more beds added. He went to the shrine and let his finger slide down the edges. He remembered distinctly how he had his final conversation with the priest before pushing this big wooden box to the block the door leading to the back. Then the firefight with the faction troops.

He continued to tour himself around town, entering houses that could be entered and avoiding tensions with the soldiers. The old buildings where he took jobs from both Kouassi and Gakumba were renovated and occupied—made into an available garrison in case of an outside attack.

There was no line dividing the town into two sides. Pala was under one flag and that of the United Front for Liberation and Labor. He had made that happen two years ago—when he agreed to assassinate Kouassi so Gakumba could easily take over Leboa-Sako.

The tourist sat on the bench just outside the meager church. All-out war broke out after the civilian exodus in the south. The whole country plunged into a state worse than Somalia. It was hell. And it loosened up a bit after two years of fighting allowing people aside from journalists to enter the country. He was one of them. And as he sat there looking twiddling his fingers, he felt the dreaded urge to wreak havoc once more.


	2. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Far Cry 2 or any of its related elements. This software belongs solely to Ubisoft and its developers.**

"Hey! You."

The tourist looked up at the source of that stark British accent. It was the same bloke from the hotel. He had his buddy with him. They stood in front of him, initiating another staring contest in the middle of the street before he broke the silence.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"Papers."

"Papers?"

"You heard him," the bloke's companion barked.

The tourist let his bag slide to his lap and dug into it. He handed his passport and ID to the soldiers. They flipped through the small booklet, smirking at the recorded information of his visits. The other one let out his hand and the tourist let go of his bag. It was the same routine over and over again. The frequent stopovers at the damned checkpoints always delayed his travel time. It seemed to have gotten a bit worse this year—the bus trip took him more than six hours to get to here rather than the expected two.

He eyed them. The Brits wore the same gear as everyone else but with their dirty colorful clothes. _I bet you still have the same underwear since you got here._

"So you're got out of Kenya, eh? You look a lot like one of us. What's your business here?" the Brit finally spoke up holding on to his passport.

"I'm here to see a friend." Actually, the real reason he was here was because of an eerie phone call. From Marty. He could have sworn he put him to sleep along with the rest of his buddies. But his voice was unmistakable. It was undeniable that the Brazilian talked to him through his cell. He traced it to Marty's old phone number. He called him to come—beckoning him to come, rather likely. That was more than enough to send him packing and put it all to rest.

"Who?"

"I think that's a bit personal—"

The bloke cut him off. "Personal my ass. There are two types of people who come into this country so far as I know and they're journalists and people with scores to settle. So far, I've seen only journalists for the past two years of my stay here. And you're not one."

"And how do my affairs interest you?"

"Out of the fifty or so reporters who jostled into his joint, only four are here with real business. And you're distinctly one of them."

_Nice discerning._ "Alright, I have some business. But I don't think you should—"

"Just what the hell are you here for, anyway?" the other man, rather irritated, interrupted.

Clearly annoyed, the tourist opened his mouth but before he could say anything—

"Let him go," a third voice echoed. All heads turned to the tall man emerging out of the alleyway. He had a flak jacket on as well as some high-grade gear. The tourist sized him up; a good build. Then his face made him freeze.

"What do you want now, eh?" the bloke retorted, mildly intimidated.

"He's a friend of mine," the man replied.

The Brit turned to the tourist and asked, "You know this guy?"

He could do nothing but nod in response, still entranced by this figure's timely arrival. The two Brits turned their attention to him. "What? You're gonna pick on your phone if we don't do what you say again? Is that what you're gonna do?"

"He wouldn't need to do that," another voice echoed. This time, it was female.

The tourist noticed the two men jump and saw dark veined hands gripping the pistol handles on each one's holster.

"Now," the figure repeated, "let him go."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll let this ceasefire out the window and get us all killed," the woman replied.

"Suicidal bitch," the Brit whispered. "Fine! But we'll be seeing each other soon. And you're friend, too!"

At that, the confrontation ended and the two mercenaries left with their bottoms in one piece jamming the papers into the bag and tossing it back at the stunned tourist. The two saviors of the day approached him; he was now glaring at hauntingly familiar faces.

"Remember us?" the man teased, his American accent bringing images of that sack of 'khat' from the OCG greenhouses. The woman smiled.

The tourist dropped his jaw. "Son of a bitch," he whispered under his breath. _It can't be. It just can't be!_

"How about we head to Mike's," the woman goaded. _Mike's? Is that old hellhole still standing?_

"Don't worry, they renovated the place. It's much better," the American added. "Less cockroaches and more beer."

The tourist took a deep breath and followed them to an old van and then out of Pala.

* * *

><p>The jungle seemed to have grown larger around the dirt road. The bumpy ride in that personalized luxury SUV made him sick with nostalgia. This vehicle which he used to drive around in. The very same gold-lined gray van that he got as a reward from "Prince" Oeduard after killing his father. It was a reward that he treasured until he got screwed over by the factions. He loved it. Took care of it. Got the headlights fixed at the junkyard whenever they shattered.<p>

Sitting in the back seat, enjoying the cool African air rustling through his face, he couldn't help but stare at Warren and Flora—two old friends who helped him out when he was doing hit jobs for diamonds.

Listening to Warren convinced him of a general change in the man's attitude. He wasn't all too cocky back then. Instead of "scrounging up some large caliber", he heard a darker version of his usual retorts.

"A lot of shit gone down here, man," the American spat as he drove, "Changes in leadership and all that stuff. Man, there couldn't have been better guys than the last ones."

"We've been waiting for you," Flora cut in, her native Angolan accent ringing in her intonations.

_Waiting for me?_ That single line echoed the aura of creepy suspense films where the strange characters tell the protagonist that they've knew he was coming and that they made preparations for his visit. He was well aware of the paranoid thought that there was something sinister behind those faces. And in a chaotic state such as this, it wasn't at all paranoid. _Who else would be waiting for you, dumbass?_ the dark voice in his head criticized, _Of course, everyone else you've put a bullet in is waiting for you. Waiting to see your astonished face as they show their marred faces and give you the stares!_

The tourist blinked, trying to silence the devil of his mind. By that time, Warren had parked the van just outside of the bar. It was still the same on the outside except for a few other trash scattered around the place. The arms dealer as well as the armory which he frequented also looked the same. Memories of walking into that bar and talking to Marty, Warren, Quarbani, Flora, Paul—

"We're here, buddy," the American beckoned.

The tourist grabbed his bag and exited the vehicle. The sound of the water licking the ford captivated him. The quay had two boats on it as well as a few marked crates. The shadow of the trees dimmed segments of the ground as the leaves rustled against each other.

"Homesick?" Flora teased.

The tourist shook his head, still unable to speak directly to them. He had the strength. He could muster it. But he just couldn't. Something in him was keeping those words from coming out. All he could do, for the moment, was just nod and gesture with his hands.

They stepped onto the patio and entered the bar.

He didn't expect much to change here at Mike's. The fridge was working and had some beer in it. Some of the windows weren't barred shut; they were just simply locked. New wood. The same tables and chairs. Lesser garbage here and there. Lesser roaches as well. The place where Reuben used to sit and write his stories. And then the bar.

Someone was sitting on one of the stools, back turned against them. The person was wearing a leather jacket and a red cap. There was a half-full glass and a bottle of liquor next to it. There was the sound of paper brushing against paper. Clearly, the individual was reading something. _Probably Reuben's published novel._ Reuben wasn't here anymore. Or at least, yet. The ambitious reporter went back to Joburg after the exodus. He would be probably back here anytime soon.

"We're back," Warren called, walking to the bar. "And guess who's joined the party."

The tourist kept a short distance from the stools. He eyed the shelves full of bottles, glasses, and containers. Warren was sitting right next to the person just as the individual placed the book down and turned around. His eyes widened.

"Long time no see, cher," greeted Michelle.


	3. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Far Cry 2 or any of its related elements. This software belongs solely to Ubisoft and its developers.**

**NOTE: I apologize for the waiting. There were two things that kept from continuing this fan fic: writer's block and college. I'll try to continue on with the story so long as I remember what happens next. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and continue to leave your feedback on the story.  
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Michelle rummaged through her briefcase and tossed two pictures onto the table. The Tourist made no reply at the photos of his former bosses, Oliver Tambossa and Addi Mbantuwe. _Two monkeys who argued over a tree full of bananas._

"They were much better than the rest who followed," Dachss remarked placing even more pictures of Africans and foreigners. Some were mercenaries who were left behind by Bastion or MacGrubber-Powell. "Each one more idiotic than the last. Refusing to deploy troops when needed, withholding supplies fearing an imaginary ambush, sacrificing fifteen troops for a truckload of ten."

"Bad tactics, man. Just plain bad tactics," Warren added lighting his cigarette as he leaned against the wall. Flora was busy downing shots.

The Tourist plucked a snapshot of the Jackal out of the heap. "What about the Jackal?"

"Oh, him? He's dead."

_You better not be lying to me._

"You remember: you took the diamonds and he took the car battery. You practically chose life over death."

_I sure did. And I tossed that blasted gun down the ravine when he blew himself up._

"Show him," Warren nudged.

Michelle dug her hand into her holster and placed a rusty and severely degraded pistol on top of the photographs. The Tourist took the gun. He felt the dirt and corrosion rubbing friction with his palm.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked, his voice sinking deep with suspicion.

"An insane gendarme stumbled over it and tried to kill himself. The gun jammed. Then I came by and ended his misery. I didn't have a pistol so I took it with me."

"It still has a few shots in it left," Warren butted in, "I used it to practice on some cans lying around in the street. Gathered 'em all outside the armory and fired away. Almost came apart."

The Jackal's voice rang in. _That gun in there is a good piece—never jams. One shot is all you'll need. You're a terminal case just like me so at least we can do something about it._ Then the memory of him opening the door. "I was a terminal case," the Tourist whispered, "a walking curse."

"What was that?" Michelle asked.

The Tourist glared at the browned up firearm and placed it back on the table. He laid the Reuben's snapshot on top of it. "The Devil himself."

"That was what everyone was saying," Flora finally spoke, the liquor having no effect on her whatsoever, "Said you were would rather torture your victims before you kill them outright."

"That would be something that'd send everyone running," Warren agreed.

"You were really a show back then," Michelle concluded. "And your chaos lasted for nearly a month."

His eyes met hers, scoffing in approval.

* * *

><p>It was a very hot morning. He jotted down the markings of the camp just ahead. On a mental note was a number. He walked around the place, eyeing the huts and the rope bridge. Just below it was a crevice. It separated the officers' quarters and the guardhouse.<p>

Everything was sitting in the middle of the jungle and the soldiers were shuffling passed him, keeping their distance as if he spread a deadly disease.

He almost ran into one of them. Their eyes met and he could see an overflowing mixture of emotions. Fear, anxiety, stress, and pain. But the most dominant of them all was fear. The moment their pupils locked, the man staggered and stumbled backwards, his hand palm extending before him. He was trembling and he hastily backed away.

What the soldier saw in his eyes almost sent him into catatonia. He heard the medic blurt it out as he stood outside watching. He stared at them. And then they looked at him. They froze. He had already developed an image of what would happen next and he slowly paced away and walked down the path.

He threw his gaze to his left and caught sight of the sniper looking at him through his scope. Regardless of the distance between them, he could his hands trembling and how much he tried to control. Sadistically, he smiled. For any viable reason, he didn't know. All that he knew was that it was instinctive and that it would take over in a few minutes.

* * *

><p>The camp was in ruins. The guardhouse was in shambles, the officers' quarters were ablaze, and the rope bridge was nearing its last line. Empty shells mixed with the bodies that littered the place. Blood was thrown in as the sauce to the cake. The carnage was his part of his newly evolving signature. Stressed and weary, he battled it out with his superiors—Greaves and Carbonel—together with his men under orders (<em>goddamn orders<em>) by the Jackal (_I can't believe I'm being ordered around by my own target_).

The heaps of ammunition that survived the onslaught were piled up and razed. He took cover behind a tree to avoid the stray bullets flying wildly outward.

The moment he leaned against the bark was when his life came into full view. From the time of his childhood all the way to the week before his mission here, it told the story of a youthful little lad with a bright future whose life was shattered by the reality of the world and live off of whatever lifestyle suited him.

Everyone was dead, all by his own hand. The only person worth killing was the Jackal. And they met for the last time at his shack just outside the border. He was the only guy who never showed a hint of fear. It was as if he had made his peace long ago. And he was ready to die whenever wherever.

* * *

><p>He stretched his arms and legs then sat on the cot. This was his initial safe house. It was one of his favorites, probably because it was his first, and he retreated here often when he had nothing else to do.<p>

It was astounding that, like the other buildings in town, this shack hadn't changed much. He was amazed that the clipboard still held its pictures. It was clear that people had been here—there was a tripod in the corner, the mess was cleaned up a bit, and the food was organized into a pot and some plates—but no one had ever bothered to remove, let alone touch, the clippings on the wall.

_Neat freaks and people who don't give a damn._

Yawning, he looked at his watch—he'd been asleep for two hours. That was good enough. But still, forty winks couldn't get the thought out of his mind.

_How did they come back? No bullet holes under their chin. That's just impossible!_

A bullet hole to the chin nearly caused their heads to crack open. _I saw felt it with my goddamn hands! The blood spattering on my hand, the magnum blowing up chunks. They were supposed to be dead!_

But they weren't. Instead, they were back as though he had left them behind instead of finishing them on the spot. _There's got to be something that I'm missing._

His phone rang. He picked it up. _New number._

"Hey there, buddy." He froze. _Marty._


	4. Chapter 3

**NOTE: I hate writer's block but I'm starting to like college life.**

* * *

><p>The Tourist casually approached the neighboring outpost. His hand itched for his sidearm but he kept it down. They weren't going to shoot at him anymore. <em>Even though we have a bunch of idiots in office, it's a bit safer now<em>, Warren's voice rang back, _I mean, we got civilians braving the streets already._

_No shit, buddy._

"Well if it isn't our little friend, 'ere!"

He turned. _Great. _Bad run-ins end badly. The next time his hand itched for the pistol, he'd let it go. The old soldier's sense was coming back to guide him.

The Brit smiled cockily as he approached his new rival. The other bastard took interest but prioritized the oncoming bus which the third guard, an obvious native, was halting. The Tourist looked at the civilian vehicle, its bright red paint outlining the frame that carried bags above it, and then at the asshole that was starting to piss him off. He felt the mercenary's finger poke hard against his chest as the insults came in.

He simply watched. Waited. With great tolerance, he waited for the bus to the stop. He waited for the passengers to be inspected. He waited for their bags to be skimmed over. He waited for the guards to give the signal. He waited for the same bus to leave.

And when the dust settled down the road, the fun began.

* * *

><p>It was a very eerie feeling driving into the lumber mill. The whole compound was deserted. The Tourist found his way into the garage, passing by another gun-mounted truck, all the while getting mental images of Reuben. <em>Really, I wonder what happened to that guy.<em>

The whir died with the engine and the Tourist stepped out. The windows in the next door house were barred shut. _As always._ He expected the door to be open. It was.

It was the same inside. And when he turned to the table in the corner, Marty was there—sitting and reading a newspaper with his legs on top like a bold punk in his principal's office. The Brazilian noticed his presence and set the paper down.

"It's been a long time, buddy." Marty's face looked the same. He slightly resembled Warren albeit shorter and more rugged. His whole right arm was wrapped in gauze. It was something he'd half-expected from an old accomplice.

"It really has."

"Surprised to see me?"

_You bet as hell I am surprised to see you, asshole!_ "Just baffled." The Tourist saw the chair but refused to sit.

"Well, I guess I should let you in on the shit, bro'."

_Just as well._ A direct conversation was just what he needed. If Marty didn't go straight to the point, well, it would mean that the Brazilian was really dead. The fact that he was still alive somewhat scared him. And he didn't like it.

"Some big shot is coming into play. He's new but he's really good. Way better than the dumbasses all the way up. He's planning on ending the war for good. He's with the Front and wants to clean house so he could sit in the big chair."

"And this is where we come in?"

"You got it, bro'. Once he's in control of the Front, he'll go all out full on the APR and wipe 'em out"—Marty clapped his hands for effect—"New country. New government. We're all going home."

The Tourist smirked. _Good thing, eh?_

"To get it straight, you, me, and everyone else, is going to bring peace to this hellhole so we could bug out. Just get rid of the guys in office, get him installed, and take out the APR."

Marty didn't need to add any more words to his proposition. He let the silence take effect and watched the Tourist rub his chin in thought all the while maintaining eye contact with him. "Who's the new boss?" he asked after a moment's contemplation.

The Brazilian smiled. The way he did it seemed (_sinister_) strange. The Tourist was old enough to know how serious things were when informants or clients made unusual facial expressions. In this case, it was an old accomplice.

* * *

><p>The convoy rolled into town. The lead vehicle, a truck mounted with a cannon that shot .50 caliber pieces at intervals of a third of a second, eased up in front of the concrete roadblock. The driver eased down the breaks as another truck behind them ceased and unloaded its bulk of troops—all of whom ran into position in a manner that would suggest formal military training—all of whom were in Kevlar and semi-khaki outfits tattered with woodland camouflage.<p>

_Either he had the money to train them or they're Special Forces._ The Tourist watched the SUV halt just behind the empty troop truck followed by two more trucks that followed the similar routine albeit the one with the cannon covered the rear (_of course_).

When all seemed safe, the passenger door of the van plopped open. The man who emerged greeted the Tourist with a bemusing mien. He was as tall as him and as robust as him but had a far darker skin tan than his. He also had that familiar bracelet around his wrist.

"Well, if it isn't an old friend," he said.

"You surprised me," the Tourist replied. His shades couldn't hide the astonishment in his eyes. They shook hands.

"Andre, is this the man?" Andre Hyppolite turned to face his client, a shorter and slightly chubby man who wore a suit slightly ruffled by the environment he was in. _A Brit,_ the Tourist observed. _Stayed here long enough to get used to the insanity._

"There are two of them. The other one is inside." The Haitian sounded more like a lapdog than a real mercenary.

The Tourist took the obligation to lead them into the building and upstairs to Marty's (_Gakumba's_) "office" even though he didn't trust their British peacemaker. _At least the Jackal's dead… right?_


End file.
